


Red - Czerwony

by StarCascade



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Sex, im not entirely sure what this is, lotsa metaphors lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-02 11:23:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18809902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarCascade/pseuds/StarCascade
Summary: Oh, her husband. He’s been so ghostly these days, drifting in and out of Eve’s peripheral vision, always two steps away from being noticed. Of course, the lynx will always best the rabbit. Niko is worlds away from the woman he loves, and it’s never more apparent than when they’re lying side by side, in a bed that Eve hasn’t dreamt in in months.





	Red - Czerwony

Artemis hunted. Artemis had no time for men.

 

Eve hunts. Eve makes one exception.

 

During the hunt, the only thing that matters is the chase - the finish line is never reached, only moved further and further away. Her legs burn, and yet she does not rest. Everything is the hunt; her morning cups of coffee, her endless reports, her husband.

 

Oh, her husband. He’s been so ghostly these days, drifting in and out of Eve’s peripheral vision, always two steps away from being noticed. Of course, the lynx will always best the rabbit. Niko is worlds away from the woman he loves, and it’s never more apparent than when they’re lying side by side, in a bed that Eve hasn’t dreamt in in months.

 

She thinks of him one morning as he’s already left for work, wrapping a red scarf around her neck. She stares at the scarf in the mirror for a moment. _Czerwony_ \- red. Her husband taught her that word, how long ago? A decade? A lifetime? Eve can’t remember, or doesn’t want to.

 

Beneath the coffee table lies an abandoned scrapbook that Eve put together a long time ago, full to the brim with wedding pictures and keepsakes and handwritten notes from friends she hasn’t seen in years. A thick layer of dust silences the front cover. Eve can only hold the binder, unopened, for a few seconds, until she feels the stirring of bile in her throat. She leaves it, and goes to work. The hunt is what she knows.

 

When she returns home, long after sundown, he’s still not back. He’s been taking longer evenings now, and Eve imagines him at his desk at the school for far too long, grading papers and trying to ignore what looms in front of him. She waits, but the pang of guilt does not come.

 

That evening, she reaches deep into the forgotten-about drawer in her bathroom counter, to retrieve a deadly little bottle of perfume. As she wafts the slightest amount of it over her, she stares yet again at the scarf. After a moment, her hands feel departed from her body, and Eve watches them as they tighten the scarf around her neck.

 

She’s not trying to hurt herself, no. She saves that pleasure for Villanelle. She only wants the slight discomfort of the fabric pressing too tightly against her skin, drinking in Villanelle’s scent. She does not deserve such niceties.

 

The door opens almost silently, like a mouse returning to the cat’s bed. Eve drops her hands quickly, as if she’s been caught in an embarrassing act, and runs her hands over her tangled hair. Her eyes flick ever briefly to a painting of a rose hanging between the mirrors. Was that always there?

 

Her husband’s footsteps draw her away. She walks back into the bedroom moments before he gets there. He looks tired. Was he ever not tired? Eve meets his gaze, and he looks surprised, a prince noticed by the peasant. Eve figures she doesn’t really look at him anymore.

 

“Hello, Eve.”

 

“Hello, darling.”

 

Within minutes, her scarf comes off, quickly followed by his jacket and his shirt and everything else, until their bedroom looks ravaged, alive with garments that finally have a story to tell. Eve’s moans fill the bedroom, and it’s all sheet-grabbing and hot and rough and human.

 

Eve’s vision flickers in and out like candlelight as sweat drips down her sides. She swore she wouldn’t, but as she runs her hands over Niko’s coarse skin, she imagines it’s the smooth skin of the killer that Artemis would never dare to catch. Yet Eve is broken, and she could not rival Artemis, not as she sacrifices and feeds in the same breath.

 

If Villanelle cannot be her prey, she will settle for Niko. She thinks of herself as a conqueror, and the phantom taste of blood fills her mouth as she rides him. With each thrust, Eve becomes Villanelle, lying next to her in bed, stabbed again, again, again. She can only dream of what her counterweight felt that fateful day, of the pain it caused her, of the life it brought her.

 

Eve cannot have what she wants, so she takes what she has been given. She’ll take Niko on her terms and run him into the ground, if that’s what it takes. She chokes out his name, but it comes out as little more than a whisper. To quiet the cacophony of _Villanelle_ that rises in her head like a hurricane, she begins to scream red.

 

She screams _czerwony_ , over and over again. If her husband finds it strange, he doesn’t say anything. Maybe he does. Eve can hear nothing, see nothing but the flashes of red behind her eyes. She imagines her fingers, supple and precise, disappearing into her, one after the other. She has discovered the profound, a new beast to feed on and to hunger for. She is merely practicing, here atop her husband, for the hunt.

 

It’s only when he stills that she realizes how far away she’s been, and she forces herself to idle. After an eternity, her eyes open, and she begins to breathe again. She looks him right in the eyes as his chest rises and falls with more strength than she thinks he’s ever had. He smiles at her, and Eve thinks of Villanelle sinking her teeth into her neck. She smiles back.

 

Czerwony. The hunt is on.  


End file.
